


Bedrunken

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alcohol, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-07
Updated: 2008-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:37:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John likes to think he's good at putting two and two together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedrunken

**Author's Note:**

> For Jenn!

John likes to think he's good at putting two and two together and getting something approximating four—that he's fine-honed his instincts over the years so that he can tell what's going on, and what caused it. He knows what's what, he knows what's going down, he's cool: so when Rodney props him up in the transporter, John sighs and lets his head rest against the wall and wrangles a heavy tongue into saying, "I am not upright. S'my ears."

"Are you sure it's not more likely to be the _seven bottles_ of Sam Adams you drank? I'm not allowing you and Ronon to get into any more drinking competitions." Rodney sounds stern, but his mouth is twitching at the corners like he's trying not to laugh; he's been smiling all night, loose-limbed with the whole city's happiness; John likes the too-rare way Rodney's mouth curls upwards when he's content.

"Beer," John says happily. He'd drunk more than Ronon had; awesome. But that's not the point here, and John prides himself on staying on point. "But no. Ears help you balance." He sticks his arms out wide to demonstrate, narrowly missing punching Rodney in the chest. "Lots an' lots of little bones. If they're not cooperating, you don't stand up so good. See?" He tries to heave himself away from the wall, but only manages to tip forwards into Rodney. "Case in point," he mumbles into the warm cotton of Rodney's t-shirt, aglow with satisfaction at being proven empirically correct—not just scientists who are all about the method—and at having a Rodney so close to keep him upright.

"We're blaming this on your ears?" Rodney says, and he does sound amused now.

"Lil' bones," John pronounces, enunciating with deliberate care, "Untrustworthy."

Rodney snorts, and says, "Oh god, okay, you're having at least two pints of water before you go to sleep, and a banana for potassium, I don't care what Jennifer says, if you're going to inflict this on your liver at the age of—"

John lets Rodney's words wash over him, not really caring what he's saying, because with Rodney it's always been the substance that's important, not the style, and he knows what Rodney means. "Your ears are stable," he whispers, and raises his head to press a clumsy kiss against Rodney's left ear; feels feathery hair and flushing skin beneath his lips; trusts Rodney to know what he means, and why he keeps holding on.


End file.
